The Spotted Bandana
by CantansAvis
Summary: An adaptation of the original "The Speckled Band" adventure. A woman, soon to be married, notices a strange noise that occurs every night. Her late twin sister, also engaged before her death, heard the same noise before her mysterious demise. Terrified, the woman calls upon Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and draws them into a case filled with threats, plots, and awkwardness.
1. The Client

"John?"

John Watson grumbled into his pillow, frustrated at being wrenched from his sleep.

"John?"

The tired doctor found the voice to be especially irritating this morning.

"John!"

John was soon lying on the floor, blearily looking up the lanky consulting detective. "What the hell, Sherlock?" He glanced at the clock. Quarter past seven. On the weekend. He should be sleeping. And then wake up, _on his own terms_, around nine, have a cup of tea, read the paper... But no. Instead he was on the floor, pushed out of bed by a cranky Sherlock. Great.

"Not my fault. Mrs. Hudson dragged me away from my experiment because someone was practically beating the door down. I thought they would eventually go away..."_ Of course you would,_ John thought. "But you know Mrs. Hudson. Brought the woman in. She was pretty much in hysterics. The woman, that is. She's downstairs. Mrs. Hudson's just heated up some tea."

Sherlock looked expectantly at John, who just stared back. "So?"

The consulting detective simply turned around and headed toward the open door. "So," he drawled as he walked away, "get dressed. We have a case." The smug smirk was just oozing into his tone. John swore as he stumbled out of bed; that man was just so _infuriating_.

* * *

John found his usual seat to be occupied by a woman, dressed all in black and with a sombre expression. Streaks of grey appeared prematurely in her otherwise luscious hair. Sherlock sat across from her, his eyes constantly shifting as he analyzed their possible client. John grabbed a chair from the dining room (well, part Sherlock's "chemistry lab", i.e. he ran out of room in the kitchen, since John asserted they couldn't survive solely on Chinese takeout).

Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. Worry furrowed her brow. "Oh dear," she said, looking toward the shivering girl, "Is it too cold in here? Sherlock here insists on some constant, cool temperature for his experiments." She eyed the kitchen with distaste, remembering all the various body parts in the fridge, jars, cupboards, microwave, sink, etc.

The woman gave a quick shake of her head. "Oh, no. I'm not shivering because I'm cold. I'm simply terrified." Three heads cocked to the side, confused and curious. "I don't know; my hands, my body, they keep trembling."

With a smile of pity and concern, Mrs. Hudson gently insisted the girl have a cup of tea. In his usual manner, Sherlock gazed at the girl, hands folded underneath his chin.

"Miss..." John began.

"Stoner. Helen Stoner."

"Miss Stoner, why are you so scared?"

Before Helen could take a breath to start her story, Sherlock interrupted, "It must be urgent. You must've come from somewhere around Surrey; quite aways from here." The woman looked shocked. John just rolled his eyes, hiding his usual amazement. He was still miffed at Sherlock for dragging him out of bed.

"You took an early train, yet took some filthy cab to get to the station first." John fought the urge to slap unintentional show-off as Helen's eyes widened and looked to John for some explanation. Sherlock, master of observation, just noticed Helen's surprise.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked, dumbfounded. By God, he would never understand normal people.

The woman shook her head. Sherlock sighed. John internally groaned.

"You had half of a train ticket stub in your hand; you just put it down on the tray when you took your tea. And though your clothes are dark, I can still distinctly see the various kinds of dirt and dust. You also smell a bit like..." Sherlock inhaled deeply, seeming to relish it. "cigarettes."

The woman absentmindedly smelled her dark cardigan. She crinkled her nose in a Mrs. Hudson-like fashion before looking back up at Sherlock. "Uh, wow. I had to start early, to avoid any questions. I have to run some errands anyway, so I can simply use that or traffic as an excuse." She paused, twisting her sleeves slightly. "Anyway, I came to you at the recommendation of Mrs. Farintosh. If you could help _her_, I'm pretty sure you could probably help me." John looked to Sherlock, confused. He had never heard of this Farintosh woman.

Sherlock waved his hand carelessly, not taking his eyes off the client. "Old case. Before I met you. Quite an interesting one. A tale for another time." He waved to the woman with the air of a commander. "Continue." John quietly scoffed.

"My case is a bit vague. Maybe I'm just paranoid, like my stepfather keeps telling me. But as you can see," she held out a trembling hand, "I'm quite frightened." She began twisting the ends of her sleeves more frequently and fervently, as if she were a school girl about to be caught for doing something naughty.

John's anger at Sherlock ebbed at the sight. With a gently voice, he said, "Please, Miss Stoner, tell us what happened."

Comforted by the blonde man with the kind eyes, Helen Stoner told them about her tragic, sheltered, and unfortunate life.


	2. Helen's Story

"I live with my stepfather, who is the sole survivor of one of the oldest families in the U.K., the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on, as you figured out, the western border of Surrey.

The family used to be on of the richest in the country. Their estates spread far and wide. But, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, you know how people are. Extravagance, poor planning, gambling... there's only a few acres left with an old house we can barely afford.

When my stepfather was a young man, decided to do something about the declining family wealth. He received a medical degree and went abroad to practice. And he was quite successful, until, in a rage brought about by a robbery, he almost beat a man to death. He was sentenced to prison for a while and came back here, disappointed and irritable.

While abroad, Dr. Roylott met and eventually married my mother, the widow of Major-General Stoner. Me and my twin sister, Julia, were two at the time.

Our mother was, to put it simply,_ loaded_. She gained a plump sum every year, which, in her old-fashioned notion, she bequeathed entirely to her new husband." At this point of the story, Helen was becoming somewhat bitter and morose, sneering her last statement. Even John could deduce her "subtle" animosity towards her stepfather.

With a softening of her expression and sad tremble in her voice, Helen continued, "My mother died shortly after our return." She paused. Sherlock made no change in expression while John poured her another cup of tea, which she took gratefully.

"Thank you. Anyway, my stepfather gave up on his practice and simply moved us to the house at Stoke Moran. We had enough money and life seemed like it would be fine.

But my stepfather's temper grew worse. He began to avoid going out, and if he did, well, it usually ended in a brawl or a scandal." Helen's eyes widened, but she stared at nothing, haunted by her memories.

"He's scary when he flies into a temper. He's so strong, so uncontrollable; it's like he's a gorilla gone mad." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at this, but said nothing. John wondered how a petite girl like her could have lasted so long.

"Hell," she gave an uneasy, empty chuckle, "he threw the mechanic into a nearby river last week. I had to bribe him to keep quiet." John looked startled and Sherlock appeared, at least to John, to struggle with his facade.

"He keeps strange friends, my stepfather. He lets all the gypsies camp out on the property and walks around with them. He also has strange pets that he lets wander around, which terrifies everyone. He currently has a baboon and a cheetah." Sherlock glanced over at John and wondered if it was possible for eyes to pop out of the human head. He'd have to simulate an experiment later.

"Since people were terrified of the estate, so any sort of help was out of the question. My sister and I knew we couldn't just up and leave our stepfather, and it's not like we had any real-life experience, so we stayed and cared for the estate ourselves. Until Julia died two years ago." Sherlock subtly rubbed his hands in anticipation of the case. John, being John and somewhat flustered, refilled Miss Stoner's teacup, which she sipped at delicately before continuing.

"She was engaged to a half-pay major of marines, whom she met at a Christmas party. Our stepfather appeared to have no objections. Two weeks before the wedding, however, she lay dying in my arms." Sherlock leaned back into his chair.

"Please," he mumbled, eyes closed in concentration, "be as precise as possible when recounting what happened."

With a nod the consulting detective couldn't see, Helen told of the chilling night. "We all lived in a single wing of the old house. The bedrooms are on the ground floor, all opening out into the same corridor. There's no connection between them. The windows open out to the lawn.

Our stepfather went to bed early that night, blaming some long walk he apparently took earlier. We know he didn't sleep right away though, since my sister could smell the smoke of his cigars. So she left her room and came into mine, excited about her wedding.

When she left, around eleven, she asked if I whistled in my sleep. Confused, I simply replied that I didn't. She appeared anxious, so I queried as to why she asked. Apparently, a sort of whistling had been disturbing her sleep the last couple of nights. I comforted her by telling her it was simply one of the gypsies passing by her window. She agreed and gave a smile, though still a bit anxious. I soon heard her lock her door." Sherlock opened his eyes slightly, wondering.

"Oh, we usually locked our doors, due to the cheetah and baboon. Anyway, her anxiety was apparently infectious, because I couldn't seem to fall asleep either. And the weather wasn't helping, with the rain pouring and the wind howling. Then, as if straight from a horror film, a blood-curdling scream filled the air.

When I ran to go check on Julia, I finally heard the damn whistling she was talking about, low and foreboding. There was also a loud, clanging, metallic sound. Julia's door was unlocked and swung open to reveal her, swaying and clawing at the air. I threw my arms around her to try to steady her, but instead she fell, bringing us both down.

I thought she had fainted, but she soon screamed out, 'Oh, my god! Helen! It was the bandana! The spotted bandana!' She desperately tried to tell me more and pointed at our stepfather's room until a round of spasms overtook her.

Knowing my stepfather had been a doctor and thinking Julia was pointing towards his room for me to go get him, I rushed to him. He appeared to do everything he could, but not knowing what was wrong, nothing could be done. Julia died." John went to pour the poor woman some more tea, but found that her cup would be overflowing if he did so. Sherlock opened his eyes slightly again.

"Are you sure about the whistle? And the clanging noise? Was your sister dressed?" he rattled off.

"It was a stormy night, so I cannot fully commit to saying I heard those noises. And my sister was only dressed in her nightgown, holding the charred stump of a match. The storm had knocked out the electricity, as I figured out when I tried to flip on the lights."

"Okay, she lit a match to see what had alarmed her. What did the coroner say about her death?"

"There was no obvious cause of death. She had been locked securely in her room; there was no access through her door, the windows, or the chimney. The walls were completely sound and the flooring thoroughly examined. She was alone. And there were no signs of violence. Tests for poison were inconclusive."

Sherlock prodded her on, "You look like you have a different theory."

With hesitation, Helen said, "I think she simply died of pure fright. What frightened her though, is a mystery." John could see that Sherlock instantly ignored that theory, not even giving his usual quirk of an eyebrow. He didn't completely disregard it however, as he didn't sneer or try to say anything of the like.

"Hm. Were there any gypsies on the estate at that time?"

"Yes."

"And what about her last words? The 'spotted bandana'?"

"Maybe it was delirium. Or a reference to a band of people, like the gypsies, who often wore speckled bands."

"Mm. Continue," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand that John just wanted to smack.

"I've recently become engaged and we're to be married in May. But two days ago, I was moved to Julia's old room due to some construction in the wing. And last night, thinking about my poor sister, I heard it. It was as clear as could be. The low whistling that my sister heard before her untimely death.

I quickly turned on the lights, but nothing was there. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I simply got dressed and waited for the appropriate time to come here." If John wasn't so sympathetic towards the woman, if John was, say, perhaps Sherlock, he would have thought,_ Appropriate? Who on earth thinks that quarter past seven on a Saturday is appropriate?_ But John was John and simply made sure her teacup was full.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock asked, "Is that it?"

Confused, Helen replied, "Yes."

"Then, what of this?" Sherlock, quick as a snake, grabbed her arm and pulled up her sleeve. Five little livid spots, five fingerprints, were printed on her pale arm. John felt a burning anger surge through him.

Helen flushed. "My stepfather's a hard man. But he's all I got," she said before wiggling her arm out of Sherlock's grasp and pulling her sleeve back down.

After a small pause, Sherlock asked, "Could we come over? Inspect the place? Without your stepfather knowing?"

With a smile, Helen said, "You're in luck Mr. Holmes. He's to be out on business all day today. And no one's on the estate anyway, so you should be left alone to do your work."

"Good. We'll be there in the early afternoon; I have a few things to do first."

"And I have a few errands to run. I'll see you later, Mr. Holmes." Helen Stoner got up and grabbed her purse. She nodded to John. "Mr. Watson."

As soon as she left, 221B Baker Street was in a flurry of motion and energy. Sherlock Holmes had a case.


	3. Threats and Plans

Sherlock had jumped up from his seat, a hubbub of long limbs and excitement. "A case! A case, John! And it's so old, yet so new! And..." John tried not to smile as he saw the detective jump around and babble like a lad who got a new bicycle. The detective spun around and pointed at John. "What do you think about it?"

John was a bit shocked. Sherlock normally never asked "stupid" people about his cases. But unbeknownst to John, Sherlock thought his blogger to be a special exception.

"Well," he started, "It seems to be quite a puzzle. If Miss Stoner was accurate, then her sister had been quite alone in the room. And that whistling stuff is quite a mystery."

Sherlock paused in his pacing. "Hm. Quite. But if you combine all the facts..." He drifted off into indiscernible muttering and went back to pacing.

"Would the gypsies have anything to do with it?" John asked.

"Hm. I don't think they had much to do with it." Sherlock groaned loudly. "And this is why we need to see the scene of the crime. And who the hell is at the door? I'm trying to think and their stupidity is annoying me!"_ Why on earth do all these people get up so early on a Saturday?_ John thought.

With a loud crash and a muffled, "Oh my!" from Mrs. Hudson, a large man entered the room. He was a huge, towering man who looked like a gorilla trying to pass for gentility, but without any of the humour of the image. No, this man had an air of evil about him. True evil that seemed to waft from every sunburnt wrinkle and burn from his watery eyes.

"Which of you is Holmes? And which of you called me stupid?" Acid seemed to have leaked into his voice.

"Me. On both counts. Now who the hell are you?" Sherlock said without blinking. John glanced over to where his pistol was hidden. Sometimes, Sherlock was just so_ stupid_.

"Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. Now I know my stepdaughter has been here; what the hell did she tell you?" _Grimesby? Who names their child "Grimesby"?_ John thought while inching towards his gun. Grimesby did not look very happy.

"It's been a little cold for this time of year," said Sherlock casually, inspecting his fingernails.

Both doctors gave him an incredulous look. "What did she tell you?" Doctor Roylott prodded.

"But I've heard that the crocuses promise well," continued the imperturbable detective.

Doctor Roylott was not amused. "Trying to put me off, are ya?" He took a menacing step forward. John inched towards his gun a little faster. "I know you, you bastard! I've heard of ya before. You're Holmes, the meddler."

Sherlock smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody!"

Sherlock began to chuckle.

"Holmes, the Scotland Yard jack-in-office!"

Sherlock, to John's amusement and dismay, burst out laughing. "You're a funny man, Doctor Roylott. Now, good bye!" He waved the man away like he would a stray dog or a fly. John internally facepalmed.

The man flushed. "I'll leave when I want to! Now listen here, Holmes. I know my stepdaughter came to you. You stay out of my business! I'm a dangerous man to go against." With that, he picked up a fire poker. John gripped his gun. Doctor Roylott then proceeded to bend the steel stick. It landed on the ground with a clatter. "Stay away," he snarled before stalking out of the room.

As Sherlock proceeded to straighten the poker, Mrs. Hudson popped her head into the room. "Sherlock, now who was that? He owes me a new door!"

"Oh don't worry Mrs. Hudson. I'll make sure Mycroft drops one off this afternoon," he said, holding up the newly fixed poker. "Now I'm off. Got a few things to do."

"Sherlock! What about breakfast?" Mrs. Hudson called after the detective. John shook his head, in his usual_ oh Sherlock..._ manner.

"I'll take some of that, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

Sherlock returned later, around one. "C'mon John. Let's go," he urged the old soldier out of his comfy chair.

"Wait, what have you figured out?" John stuttered as Sherlock began trying to pull him out the door.

"Later. Now, let's go!"

With a_ humph_, John followed the bothersome detective, who was hailing down a cab.

Once in the cab, Sherlock quickly recounted what he had found out. "Miss Stoner was quite accurate in stating that her mother was old-fashioned, for her daughters would only receive their inheritance when they got married. When that happens, Doctor Roylott's source of income becomes crap. Now, I see you've got your pistol. Good. We don't know, well, we do know, what that man is capable of." Sherlock then set about thinking again, and John didn't want to bother interrupting. Instead, he decided to think as well.

Ten minutes later, thinking turned into napping for the dear doctor. Until, just like that morning, he was rudely awakened by that gravelly voice, "Stop! Stop! Right here will do." John struggled to open his eyes.

"Ya sure 'bout that?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock threw a couple bills at the driver, before dragging the groggy doctor out of the car.

"Sherlock, where the hell are we?" John whined. They were in the middle of a path by some fields. A cow mooed and contemplated John, who glared at it.

"Hello Miss Stoner." John rapidly blinked the sleep from his eyes. Helen Stoner was standing before them, both a bit shocked and amused.

"Hello Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson." She smiled coyly, but she trembled slightly with excitement. "Quite an entrance. Now, we can take our time to the estate. My stepfather will be out all day."

"About him... we had the pleasure to meet him today," Sherlock said. As he quickly sketched out what happened, Helen paled and her mouth opened slightly in horror.

"Now what'll we do?"

"Do you have any other family nearby?"

"Yes, my aunt at Harrow."

"Then tonight, you'll stay with her. Now let's take a look at that house."

Once they arrived at the run-down estate, like a hound on the scent, Sherlock inspected it. He did it in silence, Helen and John watching an artist at his work.

Julia's, now Helen's, room was simple and homely. There was little furniture. It looked like a simple motel room, with little personalization. There was thick bell-rope near the bed.

"Where does that go to?" Sherlock asked, reaching to give it a tug.

"I'm not sure -"

"It's a dummy."

"What?"

"It's attached to this ventilator." Sherlock pointed to the small ventilator above it. It connected the room to Doctor Roylott's. "Let's investigate." He strode out of the room, his followers in tow.

The doctor's room was larger than his stepdaughter's, but with the same, de-personalized, motel room simplicity. There was a large iron safe and a saucer of milk near it.

"Is there a cat in the safe?"

"What? No! Why?" Helen was so confused. Sherlock pointed at the saucer.

He then walked across the room, and fingered a small dog leash, tied to make a loop. "Hm," he murmured, "and what are you for?"

He swiveled to face his companion and his client. "Tonight, Miss Stoner, you will confine yourself to your room when your stepfather comes back, saying you don't feel well. As soon as your stepfather retires for the night, open your shutters and put a lamp there. We'll be at the village inn and see your signal. Then you'll go to your old room while we head into your current one. After a while, carefully go away to your aunt's. One of us will escort you to the door. Then we'll stay here for the rest of the night and finally figure out what's going on."

After of few moments of comprehension, for Sherlock talked much faster than he should when explaining an important, life-or-death plan, the pair nodded in agreement. The plan was set.

* * *

John and Sherlock easily rented the room they needed from the inn. Sherlock sat in contemplation and John flicked through the channels on the TV as they waited for the signal.

"John," Sherlock cut into the silence, "I'm not sure I want you to come." John looked at him incredulously.

"And why the hell not?" he asked, indignant.

"It's quite dangerous." Sherlock seemed to fidget._ Does he... no, he can't. He's_ Sherlock._ He finds sentiment to be a weakness._

"Sherlock, I'll be fine. I've gone through hell and back. Mainly with or for you. So, I'm coming. Plus, the odds are better if there are two of us."

Sherlock looked uneasy as he consented. After a few more moments of silence, Sherlock stated, "I hate it when doctors go bad. They initially wanted to help people. When they turn to crime... they are truly capable. They have both the nerve and the knowledge for it." He turned swiftly towards John. "Don't you dare do anything stupid like that."

John rolled his eyes, but there was a light fluttering in his stomach. It was kind of cute when Sherlock got worried. He was like a little five-year-old, thinking his commands must and will be followed. "Don't worry about it. I live with a genius consulting detective. I couldn't do it even if I wanted to," John replied with a smile. Both content, the pair settled back into silence.

* * *

At around eleven, John was roused from his sleep, more gently than earlier that day. "John... It's time to go. Don't forget your pistol."

Happy to be awakened more politely, John swung his legs over the bed, almost hitting Sherlock, who gave a little cry of shock. "Mm? Sorry." He grabbed his pistol from the nightstand and tucked it in his coat. He looked out the window, a little light was shining from afar.

Sherlock held the door open for him. Still groggy, John thought, _Oh, what a gentleman._ Then the pair set out into the sinister, dark night, into the thick of danger and mystery.


	4. Awkward Waiting and a Death

The pair crossed the grounds guided only by the light in the window. The sky was a thick black, heavy with clouds. A biting wind seemed to hiss, "Don't go, don't go, don't go..."

As they approached the window, a hideous figure, as small as a child, threw itself onto the grass and with a howl, darted across the lawn.

"Shit! What was that?" John exclaimed, instinctively clinging onto Sherlock.

"The baboon. Now, sh!" With the nimbleness of said baboon, Sherlock climbed through the window left ajar by Helen and pulled the doctor in. Once the windows were secured, to John's relief, Sherlock commanded, "Now make sure Miss Stoner gets out of here safely."

Wanting to grumble at being commanded, but knowing that Helen must stay safe, John took out his pistol and proceeded quietly out to the corridor. It was eerily dark and silent. John crept over in the direction of Helen's room. He gave a quiet knock on the door. "Psst... Helen, it's John." The door opened a crack and a light almost blinded John. He fell backwards with a muffled_ thump_.

"Oh, John! I'm so sorry!" Helen whispered. She helped the still slightly blinded doctor to his feet.

"S'okay, but you have to turn that off. Can you figure out how to get out from here?" He rubbed at his eyes in attempt to see better.

John heard the small, sad smile in her voice. "I've spent almost my entire life here, Mr. Watson. I think I can manage."

"Then lead the way," he replied, taking her hand.

* * *

John, after blindly groping his way back to the room, entered the room only to be attacked, a hand clamping over his mouth. He was about to shoot whoever his bloody attacker is, until the assailant hissed in his ear, "Sh, it's just me. Now we can't turn on the lights, and we must remain silent." He took his hand off of John's mouth. _Bloody asshole..._ John mouthed.

"We can sit on the bed. But no falling asleep. Keep your pistol ready." Sherlock took out a long, thin cane from only-God-knows-where and put it beside him when he sat on the bed. When John squinted into the darkness, he could see the lanky man sitting cross-legged on the bed, a yard or two away from the dummy bell-rope. Gun in hand, John clambered onto the bed next to him.

John wondered how Sherlock could've thought he might fall asleep. This was bloody tense. Just sitting and waiting around for a murderer. And that damn clock. Off in the distance, a clock rang out out every quarter hour. Who could live with a clock like that? The first time it went off, John grabbed Sherlock, who almost hit him with the cane. Fortunately, he realized it was only John and instead, to John's surprise and guilty pleasure, tried to soothe startled man.

Three hours passed by slowly, John still holding onto Sherlock. In the dark, it was nice knowing there was someone else there. Especially someone who knows how to kick ass. And rattle off the periodic table. At the same time. Sherlock, through his cold exterior, was a very comforting man.

After the damn bell rang for the umpteenth time, a flash of light appeared through the ventilator. Someone had flicked on a torch. There was a little movement. Then silence once more. Two clock chimes later, there was a low, foreboding hissing.

Sherlock, in a release of anxiety, sprang up, flicked on a nearby lamp, and began thrashing the bell-rope with his cane. "John! Look out for it!" he yelled. John however, could not look out as the sudden light blinded him. Soon enough, the thrashing stopped and all that could be heard was Sherlock's heavy breathing.

A loud cry, filled with anger, betrayal, sorrow, and a thousand disappointments, pierced the world. It is said that even the heaviest sleeper in the village was woken in despair from it. "What was that?" John whispered.

"The end of of our case. Come on, let's go to Doctor Roylott's room." Sherlock strode out of the room, his face no longer comforting, but hardened by the cruelty of man.

They were met with the body of Doctor Roylott, slumped across his desk, the dog leash underneath his body and a spotted bandana around his head. Fear was inscribed in his stony, dead eyes. "The spotted bandana..." Sherlock mumbled. John took a step forward, but with a his, the bandana sprung to life to reveal its true identity.

"A swamp adder. The deadliest snake in India. A poison and bite untraceable unless one's looking for them,*" Sherlock deadpanned. He shoved past John and quickly, using the dog leash he snatched from under the corpse, threw the snake back into the safe.

* * *

The next morning, a call was given to Helen Stoner who was relieved yet seemed to feel a tinge of grief for her stepfather. Inspector Lestrade dropped by, asking for the details. Sherlock drawled it out in his usual bored,_ isn't-it-obvious_ manner:

"The stepfather wanted all the money. So as soon as the girls want to get married and move out, he would kill them with something almost untraceable, i.e. the swamp adder. He trained the snake via dog leash (for handling), milk saucer and whistling. On the night of Julia Stoner's murder he let the snake go through the ventilator, down the bell-rope, and to the girl. The bed had been clamped down, so she couldn't move it prior to this night. The girl in her fright and dying moments could only describe the snake, called back to its master by the low whistle, as a spotted bandana. Thus Doctor Roylott was able to keep his hefty sum of money. Helen Stoner would have suffered the same fate unless she came to me."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock with his usual incredulity. "You got all this in less than 24 hours?"

Sherlock looked at him with the same incredulity. "Of course. Isn't it obvious? The ventilator? The dummy bell rope? The exotic pets? The leash? The whistling? The saucer of milk? The impressions on the chair, showing he stood on it often? Come on Inspector, it was staring right at you!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes (just like John did at that very moment). "Anyway, this death," he pointed at the perpetually frightened corpse of Doctor Roylott, "is accidental, right?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow, as did John.

Sherlock shrugged. "When I hit the snake, I drove it back to its master. It was instinctively angry and bit the nearest living thing. In this case, the murderer." He turned away from his companions. "But I cannot say that it is likely to weigh heavily upon my conscience."

Fin.

* * *

**A/N**: *I don't know if this remains true in the 21st century. It probably doesn't.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes in any way. (The only thing I quoted/used exactly from the text are Sherlock's last words.)

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


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